


Fooling the Devil

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run, Michael, Lincoln and Sucre have found a perfect way to conceal themselves - until someone else shows up, someone they had hoped never to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fooling the Devil

“Hey, Papi, this idea is genius, man!”

Sucre was positively delighted. He stood there, in the middle of a street filled with people, and grinned – free, on the run, and safe for an evening. And dressed up as Zorro.

Michael laughed with his former cell mate. Sucre's face was well hidden by the mask, and the tight breeches and cloak fit him like a second skin.

“Great costumes, guys,” Lincoln said, grinning. He had just joined them, a caramelized apple in his hand. “But hey, Michael – are we taking ourselves a little seriously tonight?”

Michael playfully stuck his tongue out at his brother. He felt giddy with freedom and childish with glee. To break out and run was one thing, but to hide them from the feds in the middle of a public Halloween party?

_Brilliant, if I say so myself._

“Well, the halo might be a bit over the top, but the wings, Linc! They're awesome!”

His ankle-length, white robes were the most comfortable thing he'd worn since going to prison. And the wings – pale, pale blue – were rather beautiful.

“Too bad angels don't wear masks,” Sucre said, straightening his own such. “This is like the perfect disguise.”

Michael shrugged, then pretended to look critically at his brother's outfit. “Linc, you attention whore.”

“What?” the older brother grinned, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Just the cheapest costume I found...”

Michael rolled his eyes. Lincoln wore a wig like a bunch of reeds, a pair of baggy jeans torn and patched at the knees, and a vest matching the jeans, topped off with a fake nose shaped like a medium sized potato. No shirt, of course.

“I'm a forest troll, okay?” Lincoln laughed. “Like the ones Europeans scare their kids with.”

Well, half-naked though his brother might be, Michael knew that none of them attracted much attention. The whole town was outside, it was 31 October, a huge bonfire was lit in the town square, and they were safe for the time being.

Michael briefly wondered where the other guys were. After the escape, they'd ditched Haywire and David Apolskis, and T-Bag had been left bleeding on a barn floor. Abruzzi had taken off shortly after, going to find his family or Fibbonacci or both. C-Note had gone straight to the boarder, waiting for his wife and daughter.

Sucre, Lincoln and Michael were at a Halloween party. He was pretty sure they were having a better time than some of the others.

“Going to get myself something to eat,” Michael said, grinning. “I hear they're serving a local speciality over by the city hall.”

The local speciality turned out to be bats; grilled and with just enough spice to almost camouflage the tangy taste. Michael nibbled on the barbecue spit with bat meat, onions and fried potatoes. _Not bad, actually._

He approached the fire. It radiated enough heat to burn his cheeks even as he stood ten yards away. He begun strolling around it, looking at the people and life around him.

Suddenly a gust of wind caused the flames to flicker, and through the fiery haze he caught a flash of a man looking right at him from the other side of the fire. He flinched. He didn't have time to register anything but the man's eyes, but they were staring _right at him_.

Shaking himself, Michael kept walking, trying to look neutral and innocent. It was just a guy happening to stand on the other side of the fire; he wasn't going to call the police...

_Shit!_ There he was again. The man was standing a little distance off, looking at Michael. He wore a devil costume, Michael noticed; blood red, snug pants, matching shirt, a black cloak with vivid red lining, and a mask covering the upper half of his face. The outfit was complete with horns and a pitch-fork.

Michael swallowed, turning slowly and heading for the nearest alley. The guy had been looking at him, smiling slightly. There was something about that smile which unnerved Michael; it was knowing and cunning, and slightly compulsive. Like the man behind it was ordering him to follow.

Reaching the alley, Michael was surprised when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, steering him deeper into the narrow, shadowed street. He tried turning around, but suddenly he was pressed against the wall, held firmly in place by a hand on his shoulder and a hard body pressed against his.

“Hey, let go!” Michael said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Who do you think you are?”

“The devil himself,” came a deep hiss, so intense that Michael couldn't hear a trace of a voice in it – just snake-like syllables in his ear.

Michael grunted in discomfort as the guy behind him shoved him closer to the wall, kicking his legs apart and pushing aggressively against him.

“Let me go, dammit!” Michael insisted, shoving back against the man holding him captive. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I think ya know, Pretty...”

Michael froze. He recognized the voice. The very same voice which had haunted his every move since coming to Fox River. The very same voice which had threatened, persuaded and insulted ceaselessly since its owner caught wind of their plan to escape.

_Shit!_

With his current stance, he couldn't quite gather the strength to throw the older man off. He tried moving his legs back together, but T-Bag grasped his arm and pulled it backwards, hard. Michael gasped in pain.

“You best stop playin' games, Pretty,” T-Bag snarled, pressing hard against Michael. The engineer could feel the other man hardening against his hip; the Alabamian was getting turned on by Michael's struggles.

“You best stop playin', 'cause I could take out your main artery just... like... that,” T-Bag drawled, drawing something sharp over the tender skin of Michael's throat. It didn't cut the skin, but he could feel it slide against his pulse.

“An' trust me, I wouldn't be particularly nice to your body afterwards,” smirked his voice in Michael's ear. “So ya just gotta relax, Pretty.”

“What do you want, Theodore?” Michael repeated, trying to reach the older man by his given name. More personal than his prison nickname.

“I want what I've been wantin' all year long, college boi. But right now...”

Michael held his breath.

“... a lil' cash and food is gonna keep me off your back for a couple hours.”

Michael frowned. T-Bag had him pressed up against a wall, shank to his neck, and the man wanted food and money?

“Pretty, I ain't eaten for two days,” the murderer insisted, pressing the point of whatever was so sharp against his Adam's apple. “An' when I get hungry, I don't get picky. I can eat just about _anythin'_.”

“Fine, I'll get you something,” Michael said quickly. If he could just signal to his brother...

“Ah-ah,” T-Bag hissed, pressing harder against him. Michael swallowed heavily, his throat dry. He could really have done without the obvious erection pressing into his ass right now!

“Ya tryin' to tell me ya just gonna go fetch me somethin'? Pretty, I ain't lettin' ya go until I got what I want. Now walk, and don't make a sound.”

Michael sighed. There was nothing for it; he walked out of the alley, T-Bag hovering close by with the shank (or whatever it was, Michael thought) pressing into his side.

He led the older man to the closest food stall, bought a couple of hot dogs and two cans of soda water, then headed back the way they'd come, wordlessly directed by the sharp point to his midriff.

“You're too kind,” T-Bag grinned, pressing Michael up against the wall again. He moved the sharpness to Michael's neck again. “Now hand me one o' them dogs.”

Michael held one of the hot dogs up over his shoulder, expecting the other man to take it. He frowned when T-Bag just took a bite, not bothering to hold his food himself.

“I think I'm-a gonna keep my hands free,” T-Bag smirked. Michael heaved a sigh and held the food while T-Bag ate.

When the older man had finally devoured all the food in this way, Michael could feel the warmth of him uncomfortably close. He tried not to shiver.

“Best meal I ever had,” T-Bag laughed. “Now how 'bout some desert, boi?”

“No.” Michael tried to frieze hell over with a single syllable, but T-Bag didn't seem to care.

“Aw, ya gotta be so mean, Pretty?” he chuckled. “Ya don't like this date?”

Michael remained perfectly still. Where was Abruzzi when you needed him? Or Sucre, or Lincoln? He was pretty sure he could have thrown the man off by himself, but not with a shank to his throat.

“That don't matter,” the older man continued, unruffled. “'Cause I sure do. And ya know, Pretty, 's been a _long_ time comin'.”

“Wait,” Michael stuttered. Fear was freezing his blood at a high rate. “The money. I don't have it. You'll have to wait until I can talk to my brother.”

“Fortunately for you boys, I ain't as interested in the pocket chance as I am in your fine ass,” T-Bag laughed. “Keep the money.”

Michael was beginning to panic. He meant it; T-Bag wasn't going to let himself be paid off.

Trying to wriggle free, he could feel the front of T-Bag's red trousers against the back of his own white robes. He did not want to think about what the man would do to him once...

_Aha. Plan._

Michael became calm. He had an idea.

“So,” he began, pressing back against T-Bag. “Let's for a moment pretend I _do_ agree to some... desert.” He could hear the Alabamian exhale heavily as he tilted his hips to rub against the hardness in the devil's trousers. “You'd just kill me afterwards.”

“Now, why would ya say that, Pretty?” T-Bag said, trying to still Michael by a hand on his hip.

“Because...” Michael let his voice drop to a purr, turning his head to give T-Bag a good view of the way he licked his lips. “... you're a murderer, Theodore.”

T-Bag chuckled again, pressing their hips together. “I ain't only that, Pretty.”

Michael began thrusting his hips back at the older man, feeling them rub together. “But that's what you like best, isn't it? Blood. Screams. Young, weak bodies bleeding out underneath you while you... fuck them?”

It took every ounce of self-control he had to say that with a steady voice. He was playing a dangerous game there in the alley, but it was a question of willpower – would T-Bag crack before he freaked out himself? He bit his lip and began rocking his hips quicker, forcing out a weak moan.

“Ya got a foul mouth, Pretty,” T-Bag bit out, sounding somewhat strangled.

“Still, you'd like to have me on my knees, wouldn't you?” Michael said, grinding against the older man aggressively. “On my knees, just like one of your bitches...”

T-Bag moaned then; a coarse, guttural sound, and Michael felt warmth spread where they were touching.

_Jackpot._

As T-Bag came, panting, against Michael's bucking hips, Michael seized the moment and pushed back hard. Weakened by his climax and taken by surprise, T-Bag stumbled back, fell, and landed on the paved ground with a yell.

Michael ran.

***

“Guys, we've got to go. Now,” Michael gasped, heaving for breath.

Lincoln and Sucre stared at him.

“Now? But Papi -”

“T-Bag is here,” Michael interrupted, looking quickly over his shoulder. “We need to get out, now.”

Lincoln looked furious. “How does that bastard do it? He should be dead by now!”

“I know,” Michael agreed, trying not to blush. “Let's move.”

They set off for their truck, trying not to look suspicious. As Michael climbed into the passenger seat, Sucre suddenly poked his leg sharply.

“Papi, what's that on your robe?”

Michael knew his smirk was rivalling his blush for domination of his features.

“Nothing, I hope. Must have sat in something.”

_Or someone._

Well. He supposed Lincoln had the right idea about some things; a good offence was the best defence.


End file.
